A Study In Gondolas
by myfriendlex
Summary: Sherlock and John have a very important case in Switaerland. But what will happen when the gondola breaks down?


John groaned, peering up through his fingers at his ridiculous flatmate. He was not excited at the prospect of spending a weekend up in the mountains with Sherlock where he would not have the refuge of a bar when his friend got on the less high-functioning end of sociopathic. "I can't just go running off to the Alps to chase a suspect that isn't even in our division!" John exclaimed with utter frustration. He had three surgeries planned during the time they would be away and frankly Sherlocks antics were wearing him down. "But John! Two unsolved murders?! The first from twenty years ago?! How could I possibly resist?" Sherlock retorted."Okay , fine, but just until we catch the murderer. Then you're bringing me back here, to warm, sunny London." John replied, knowing that he couldn't leave Sherlock alone in the Alps. He would die of frostbite or forget to eat. Sherlock left the room with a victorious air and began to pack. John, utterly defeated made himself a cup of tea and thought about what would be required for their icy endeavor. He sat thoughtfully for a while, ensconced in a blanket, and then finished his tea and slouched down the hall to find his skis. John had learned to ski when he was young, taking lessons from his father and Harry. Although he was athletic and strong even at an early age, John lacked the grace for skiing, something that Harry found quite amusing. She had laughed herself silly as he struggled down green trails, somehow always managing to face uphill instead of down. John hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself in front of Sherlock, even if he already had, too many times to count. On the other hand, Sherlock, with his graceful willowy body and long thin limbs, would have no problem gliding down those steep, treacherous slopes. John shook his head, trying to forget he even thought of that image. He couldn't help admiring his friend, if only in his head,because Sherlock was an extremely attractive man, but John reasoned that was totally normal. In the army all the guys would show off their physiques and they were certainly heterosexual, but this seemed different. John shook off these thoughts, distracted from his mission. He dug his way to the back of his closet and fished out skis, boots,and helmet. He didn't know why he even kept them as his last time skiing was in university and he had no inkling of wanting to go again. The last time he had ended up with much too many bruises and too few beers that had not frozen before he could drink them. Sherlock, however, was ecstatic. He had gone skiing all throughout his childhood, and remembered the top of an icy mountain as being one of the few places he could clear his head for a brief moment, and just breathe. But all of that was insignificant to solving this case, useless sentiment which would cloud his judgement. He gathered his ski things, clothes, laptop, and microscope, wired with anticipation at solving that which had baffled police from Zurich to London for twenty years. Or was he anticipating being huddled in the corner of a cabin with John? He really couldn't tell. His feelings for his flatmates mingled seamlessly with his feelings for his work, and he could not for the life of him sort between the two. It was getting to be a real problem, even his mind palace couldn't keep thoughts of John locked , transport, thats all he is, what matters is solving the case, Sherlock told himself, hoping to distance his mind from any extraneous thoughts of that extraordinary doctor. He carted his luggage down the stairs, whipping out his mobile to phone the cab company. "You're leaving." Mrs Hudson observed "Both of you, on a holiday?" "Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said scornfully. "Criminals don't take holidays. It's for a case." " We'll be back in a few days, Mrs. Hudson" John added soothingly, struggling down the stairs under the burden of skis, poles, and a suitcase half as tall as he was. As soon as the cabbie pulled up he dashed from the flat, followed slowly by a reluctant John. ~*~ John was awoken by Sherlock, the train having arrived in their destination, a small skiing village in a secluded part of Switzerland. The cheerful scenery was a welcome sight, and John's spirits were considerably heightened by the atmosphere and the eagerness of the detective who sat across from him. But he was quickly disheartened as soon as the doors opened. The once warm car was filled with a biting wind that evaporated all John's hopes of a pleasant holiday, Sherlock, however, seemed undeterred and the only sign of effects wind had on him was his hair. Those gorgeous locks, tossed haphazardly by the tempest brewing outside, how John wished he could reach and feel one shiny lock as it jovially danced in the gale. Where did that come from, thought John as he quickly busied himself with picking up their luggage, trying to forget his traitorous thoughts. Sherlock however had to calm himself, he was so enraptured with the prospect of the case, he could smile but one look at John's face showed that it was inappropriate. Misery blossomed in John's eyes, along with an endearing sleepiness from his nap. His blue grey eyes gave away just what he was thinking, as always, and all Sherlock had to do was to look into their cavernous depths to know what was going on with John. Stop! Sherlock wrenched his eyes away from the doctor and forced his mind to focus on loading their luggage in the cab and telling the cabbie their destination in perfect French. Finally Sherlock and John reached the hotel, the cab ride from the station to the hotel having been anything but pleasant for John. His tired body had been bumped about from the erratic driving and winding roads, and he could not understand a word that Sherlock or the cabbie spoke, their fluid French having danced around John's ears in incomprehensible twirls and they pulled onto the hotel drive and slowed to a stop, John could barely lift his head to view their surroundings. Snow. They were up to their ears in powdery, fluffy snow. John would be delighted if he never saw so much as an ice cube ever again. He and Sherlock hauled their things out of the boot, making their way to the front desk. They checked in, and began to climb to the ninth floor. Finally the two of them reached the hotel room, Sherlock's willowy tall frame leading the way carrying his two small bags as John staggered after him holding four bags in sleep deprived weakness. As soon as Sherlock had unlocked the door, John barreled through, dumping the luggage on the floor in a disorganized heap and collapsed on the bed. Sherlock followed, mimicking John's motions and falling next to him, his curls resting lightly on John's outstretched arm. Huh, John's tired mind speculated. Usually Sherlock wasn't this comfortable with him. Wait… THE BED, suddenly John sat up. "Sherlock, why do we only have one bed?" "The hotel is busy, we did get the tourist season, and there weren't any extra beds left, so I said this was fine." John was ready to retort back in his displeasure but sleepiness took away his complaint. In the morning, he thought, I'll call the front desk, but for now they were just two friends caught in an awkward mix up. John slipped out of his clothes down to his pants, too tired to event think of pajamas. He clambered up the bed and underneath the duvet. Sleepily, his eyes followed Sherlock as his flatmate stood up, untying his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt and trousers, his long dextrous fingers quickly removing the garments in a fluid folded his expensive outfit deftly and placed it gently next to John's crumpled heap of jumper and jeans. "C'mere." John mumbled, pulling back the covers next to him and shivering slightly at the breath of wind caused by his motions. Sherlock slipped between the sheets, and nestled his head on the down pillow. John unconsciously moved towards the detective, unsure if he merely craved the warmth that his flatmate's body held, or something more. John's eyes closed, lids heavy, as he slid rapidly towards unconsciousness. Sherlock didn't stay awake much longer, and as he snuggled under the covers the cold blustery Swiss night melted away. He slipped his arm lightly around the doctor's waist, not knowing if it was for warmth or something he wouldn't even let himself think about, brushing his lips against the smaller man's ear as he whispered something he hoped John would not remember in the morning, "je t'aime". Regretting it immediately, Sherlock mentally cursed himself, but the doctor was already miles away and heard nothing. ~*~ John was jolted awake by a bang coming from the direction of the kitchenette in their hotel room. He sat up, blinking sleepily at the sunlight flooding through the window. Sherlock stood angrily above a now shattered microwave, its remains twisted and blackened from some sort of explosive experiment. As the smell of acrid smoke wafted over to John, still sitting blankly in bed, he buried himself beneath the duvet and tried to avoid breathing in the probably carcinogenic fumes. "Sherlock, what're you doing?" he inquired, voice muffled by the blankets. "An experiment," the response came floating into the room in Sherlock's smooth, dulcet voice "How else do you expect me to solve the case?" "Not exploding a bloody microwave." John replied dryly "No need to worry, John, I've got everything under control. Now, each of the victims were found impaled on particular trail signs, and I needed to test the effects of temperature on blood coagulation to determine if that is where they were killed or if they had been murdered earlier." "Whose blood were you using, Sherlock?" the doctor inquired, concerned. "Oh, don't look like that, John. It was my own. I didn't drain anyone." "How much blood did you take? Sherlock, you look pale, did you eat?" John, suddenly worried for his friend, threw back the covers and walked towards him. "Only a pint. And I don't need to eat. Transport, John!" "Yes, you bloody well do need to eat, the crime won't be solved if you faint and give yourself a concussion. " "Well, it can wait. Also, the microwave's broken, we'll have to go elsewhere. But first, I need to finish this experiment." Sherlock said with finality. John rolled his eyes and went back into the bedroom to get dressed. ~*~ "John, hurry up, there's a crime scene waiting for us!" whined Sherlock as he dragged his parka-clad roommate through the snow toward the ski lift. John was not happy, having been rushed through breakfast and having had his feet jammed into uncomfortable ski boots, then being dragged from the hotel onto the mountain. Sherlock hadn't exactly packed lightly for the day and John was suffering from the brute of the weight. He was carrying Sherlock's equipment in his backpack, everything from ice picks to petri dishes. Also strapped onto his backpack were his poles and he was lugging his skis for quick transport down the mountain. Sherlock however was only holding on his a pair of skis and poles and of course his beloved laptop in a small rucksack. They took a gondola up the mountain, which would have been virtually impossible to climb on foot. John however was still unhappy, although he did get to rest his feet, he had as per usual had to foot the astronomical bill for ski tickets. One bloody ride up the gondola, he fumed, and I have to pay two all day tickets so Sherlock can investigate a murder he can suppositivly connect to one from twenty bloody years ago. To top it all, these bloody Swiss gondolas were so small that he was practically forced into Sherlock's lap. He could feel the detective's warm breath on the top of his head, which was weird, but strangely soothing at the same time. Sherlock, sitting on the tiny bench, could feel the gears moving in John's head. Although they were in a very close position in a tight gondola, there was room for the doctor to rearrange and position the gear in between them, but interestingly he didn't. He seemed slightly calmed by their sudden intimacy of their position. He wondered if John remembered the admission he uttered the night before. He hoped the doctor didn't, for the sake of preserving normalcy in their routine. If John knew, and rejected him, they would be forever dancing awkwardly around that ever present elephant in the room. If John wanted to have a relationship, well, Sherlock could hardly accept that as a possibility. John professed vehemently that he was heterosexual anytime there was even a hint of doubt. He stored his thoughts of John away in a dark room of his mind palace to process later. Finally, they reached the summit, and emerged into a blizzard, or so it seemed to John. He was more than a little disappointed at the loss of the detective's body heat. Suddenly, the clouds shifted and the sun shone brightly, surprising John and turning the snow into a shower of diamonds. The mountain, covered in snow and green trees that looked as if they had been topped with cream, was one of the most astounding somethings of nature that John had ever witnessed. Sherlock however was not reveling in the sight and the warming sunshine. Instead, moving quickly on his long legs, the detective was striding away towards a trail that led to the crime scene. John hurried to catch up to his roommate, skidding to a stop when he noticed the edge of a steep incline rapidly approaching in front of them. "Sherlock, you do realize the crime was committed twenty years ago" John pondered "Twenty years ago, yes, and two days. There's been another, in the same exact manner, with the same presentation of the body." Sherlock replied. "Then why are we here looking at a trail sign and trying to not get run over?" John asked. "John, you are seeing and not observing. Try to get outside of your head and see the bigger picture, observe and understand, don't just see and process." Sherlock scolded not unkindly. John tried, but he still thought they were standing stupidly on a cold mountain top looking at an old battered sign to a steep slope. Sherlock sighed."Obviously you still don't understand. Well. Both victims were found impaled upon trail signs, and with blood tracing the letters of the trail names. That means the killer found significance not only in the mountain but in the names, and words are symbols for something else, a secret never mentioned, only understood by a select than the mountain itself, John, a transcendent idea. This idea of the mountain, the mountain must be very significant. This is shown in the blood tracings because blood is a sacrifice and sacrifice means religion. But how do we get from the words to the religion, now, can you answer me this? You saw the trail map as we arrived, what do all of the names have in common?" "Well, I think I recognized some of them from the Avengers, is that important?" John said hesitantly. " No, that's merely modern society trying to get rich off ancient beliefs. All of the trail names are references to Norse mythology. But what does that have to do with the murders? That, John, is the question." With these things having been said, Sherlock tossed his skis down in front of him, snapped his boots in, and took off down the slope, his long form lean and graceful. John followed , mimicking Sherlock's actions and taking off down the mountain. Skiing with a backpack full of scientific equipment was awkward to say the least but John didn't mind, as long as he stayed upright. Ahead of him, Sherlock made a sharp turn to the right, into a small, secluded side trail that was closed off with a piece of pink tape and some sort of warning sign in French. Trailing behind, John almost overbalanced making the turn. Due to the weight of the equipment on his back he felt unsteady, and the hair pin swerve onto the trail made the doctor's stomach clench uncomfortably. After steadying himself, the doctor was forced to make a series of exceedingly sharp turns to avoid foliage in varying degrees of solidity. Sherlock stood a few feet away at a trail sign with an amused smile on his face, not that different than the one he had when John made an incorrect deduction. John came to an unsteady stop next to the detective Sherlock went through his usual routine of examining the scene, except this time there wasn't a body and just blood stains from where the body had been before it was taken to the morgue. After observing and deducing he made a few notes on his computer, took a sample of dried blood from the sign labeled 'Kvasir' and skied away. "Wait Sherlock!" John shouted after the detective who had just sped away, "How do you know these two murders are connected?" Miraculously Sherlock heard John's yells and with a spray of snow whipped to a stop and faced his roommate. "Just look at the signs, John!" Sherlock exclaimed. The doctor was nonplussed. "But one was twenty years ago and this one was this week, how can you connect them?" "The signs, John, the signs!" came the reply. With that, Sherlock raced away. Yet again his hair caught John's attention, curls shining prettily in the sunshine, in a way that he wasn't sure that he wanted to understand. John sighed, and hurried to catch up with the detective, struggling to clear his thoughts and maintain his balance. He chased Sherlock at top speed all the way to the bottom of the mountain. ~*~ "Well, that's it?" John breathlessly asked Sherlock "All my hard-earned money for one twenty minute ride up and an even shorter run down, along with some old blood?" Eyes twinkling mysteriously, Sherlock replied, "I didn't say we were leaving just yet." and with a smile in his blue-grey eyes and almost gracing his lips, he turned back towards the gondola. "But wait, what about the case?" John asked as he followed in his friend's wake. It was quite unlike Sherlock to do anything other than work on a case until it was solved, and then he would spend days sulking about the smallest loose end he had failed to completely tie up. Puzzled, John clambered into the gondola car, stashing his skis and poles in the corner. Due to the small size of the car and their extraneous amount of gear, Sherlock and John were yet again practically in each others arms. "Sherlock," John said, struggling to face the detective, "What are you doing? There's been a murder. Someone has died. We need to bring the killer to justice. It's all about the case, remember? 'The rest is just transport' " Sherlock laughed, his deep voice filling the car in waves of velvety sound . "What? What am I missing, you tease?" Sherlock gave John a look, so deep and piercing that he almost felt like Sherlock could read his innermost thoughts. Immediately, John could feel blood rushing to his face and he quickly turned away in embarrassment. "What? What is it?" he mumbled, frustrated. "Well, it's obvious." Sherlock replied with a sly grin, "The murderer is a cult leader who believes that she is the human incarnation of the Norse goddess Skaoi, and she is on this very mountain as we speak." John turned back to meet Sherlock's eyes, utterly perplexed as to how his flatmate had possibly figured that out. "Explain it. Not everyone's brain is as large as yours." He demanded snarkily, still unsure how his friend had found that conclusion. "Well it's obvious isn't it? The bodies had been found on two trails called 'Sol' and 'Kvasir', indicating the first two letters of a code word being 'S' and 'K'. Following the Norse theme of this particular mountain, those two letters are the first two letters of the goddess Skaoi, as there are no other Norse deities that contain these two letters in close proximity, and they also tell us that the murderer was a strong believer in their own religion, strong enough to kill. The choice of this particular mountain signifies that a Norse theme was involved. These two factors indicate that this was the work of a cult. A quick search of local cults reveals a group that worships the Norse deities, the Valt, meaning chosen. In this particular cult a new leader is chosen every twenty three years. This is because the goddess is mentioned in chapter twenty three of the Gylfaginning, a holy book to members of this cult. Traditionally a sacrifice would be made with each new leader but with the insurgence of commercialism and the intrusion of the public onto their holy mountain, the leaders would be looking for revenge as well as spiritual gratification. Twenty years ago, a man named Jörge Rossi was murdered in the exact same manner as the victim of two days past, and he like the most recent victim was a customer of this mountain. They just paid for their holiday with their lives as well as their money." ~*~ Sherlock and John were so engrossed in their conversation about the case that it took a few minutes to notice that the gondola had stopped moving. "Sherlock," John began, "we've stopped." "Not to worry, John, it's probably just some idiot who fell getting off." Sherlock replied. " No, look. They're bringing in mechanics at the base." Sherlock turned awkwardly in the cramped space. Suddenly an announcement came over the mountain's speakers, the message in garbled French. But after Sherlock translated it for John and it became apparent to both that they would be there for a while. Shit, thought John. In the state he was in, with an armful of detective and very little control over his rogue thoughts, being stuck there for a prolonged amount of time wasn't in his favour. "So what now?" Sherlock whined, already bored "Now, we're going to have to wait." John replied. ~*~ Fifteen minutes later, John was dangerously close to hurling himself out of the car and onto the rocky mountain below. "I'm BORED, John." Sherlock groaned for the sixth time in five minutes. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?" John exclaimed in exasperation. "Well, there is something I've been wanting to try. How about this?" and suddenly Sherlock leaned forward and snagged John's ski mask with a long finger, crashing his lips to John's. The doctor's thoughts were evaporated in a shower of sparks, in a way he had never felt before. He sensed one of Sherlock's hands snake around the back of his helmet as the other rested on his waist, pulling him closer. As suddenly as the kiss had started, it was broken, as the detective let go of John's helmet and sat back down with a satisfied grin. "Wh-what?" John gasped, utterly startled and not the least bit aroused. "Hmm, not quite the eloquent reaction I expected. Let's try this again." Sherlock grasped the front of John's parka and pulled him down so that John was kneeling on the gondola bench, straddling the detectives lap. John struggled to get free from the detective's grip as their lips met again, his brain screaming NOT GAY NOT GAY DEFINITELY NOT GAY but his body saying Oh God yes. This. "What are you doing?" John's voice was hoarse, and he was more than a little winded. "I'm experimenting on a theory." Sherlock replied "And that is..?" "Well, obviously you are attracted to me, judging by your reaction when we're in close quarters. For months your pupils have dilated in my presence and you are uncomfortable and overtly defensive whenever anyone mentions the slightest doubt as to your sexual orientation. You're attracted to me, but unwilling to admit it because of your persistent, deliberate ignorance of your feelings." With this having been said, John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him slowly, languidly. This time it was less of sudden, shocking experience, but soft and needy. Suddenly the lift started moving, and John was thrown forward, collapsing into Sherlock's lap. The doctor felt Sherlock's deep laugh reverberating against his chest. At the top of the mountain, Sherlock quickly exited the lift and skied hurriedly away. John chased after him, shouting, "Hey! Where are you going?" Sherlock just kept going. Shit. John thought for the second time that afternoon. I've done something wrong. He raced after the detective. ~*~ John's mind was a blur of panicked thoughts as he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the mountain. The detective was already over by the ski racks, quickly removing his skis and hurrying into the lodge. Is this it? John thought. Did one stupid action just ruin our friendship? But he said he knew I was attracted to him. Was all of that passion just an experiment to fend off the boredom? I can't believe I just did that. But yet John could not fully regret his actions, recalling that one moment of oblivion where their lips met perfectly. That moment would always be something he would never regret. Oh God. thought John, This is what love feels like, isn't it? Dammit, I'm in love with bloody Sherlock Holmes. Great. The absence of Sherlock from the ski rack led John to hurry and follow him into the lodge, in order to not lose the detective in the crowd. He tailed Sherlock, calling out to him, but to no avail. Sherlock ploughed on through the throngs of skiers and into the lift. John struggled to catch up but the crowds didn't seem to part as they did for Sherlock, and he couldn't extract himself from the masses until it was too late, and the lift doors had already closed. He jammed his fist onto the lift button and anxiously awaited the next one, pacing as he he was on his way up to their floor, there was nothing to distract him from the panicked thoughts chased each other around his head If Sherlock's mad, John thought, Well, it'll ruin this friendship. And tonight, we're stuck in the same bed again. There won't be anywhere for either of us to escape to. Finally, after the eternity that each second is when they form into endless minutes, the lift finally arrived. The cheery music that filled the elevator's metallic walls was the last thing that John wanted to hear right now. He burst through the lift doors, determined to make Sherlock understand why he felt this way, when he found his path suddenly barred by a very large Swiss housekeeper shouting at him in thickly accented English. "My job is hard enough, without you people callously destroying your rooms. You think I have nothing else to do all day but clean up after children like you?!" She proceeded to tell John exactly what he could do the next time he felt like blowing up another microwave. It took ten minutes for John to escape. After a hurried apology and a promise to pay for the damages, John freed himself and left her ranting in his wake. It was not far from the lift to their room, but to John it felt like he was running a marathon as he sprinted down each carpet covered corridor. At last he reached the room, and then froze. He stared at the door without a clue as to what he was going to say. His stomach quivered with nervousness at the tempest brewing behind that barrier. With a click the doorknob turned and the door creaked open. ~*~ He found the detective, already out of his ski clothes and showered, sitting at the table. He was staring intently at the charred hole in the wall where the microwave had been, resting his chin on his steepled fingertips. "Sherlock-" John began, unsure of how he intended to continue. "Don't worry about it, John. It was nothing. I was just bored, I won't force you into something that you're not ready for out of pity for me. Because you would do it, John Hamish Watson, because that's the man that you are. Please, don't let yourself enter into a relationship just because you feel sorry for me, for both our sakes. I shouldn't have experimented on you, I apologize. Shall we return to normal, then?" "Sherlock-" John tried again, but the detective wouldn't let him get a word in otherwise. "I can ignore my feelings, I promise. Useless sentiment, anyway. That kiss doesn't have to change things, or you. You can go get a new girlfriend as soon as we return to London. I won't breathe a word of anything to anyone. And I'm sorry. It wasn't fair to put you in this position, but you're the best man I've ever know, and I could never deserve you" "Sherlock..." John's voice momentarily failed him. Before him sat his best friend, for whom he had been harbouring feelings, for who knows how long. "Sherlock, that's absolute rubbish." He tried again, "You know how I feel, you deduced it. What on earth would possess you to think that you aren't good enough for me? Sure you can be an arse, but you are the bravest, most intelligent man I have ever met, let alone downright gorgeous." After he had said the last sentence, John's face reddened in embarrassment. He had never said anything like that to anyone before, to say nothing of admitting it to himself. Sherlock finally turned from the burnt out wall and faced John for the first time, his eyes piercing straight into the doctor's heart. "But, John, you can't surely-"Sherlock began incredulously, but before he could finish John grabbed the detective by his shirtfront and pulled him in, kissing him forcefully. As their lips met, John could almost feel Sherlock forget whatever he had been about to say next as he leaned in closer to the doctor. The experience on the gondola was nothing like this. There they were eating of the forbidden fruit, but here, in the burnt kitchenette of a foreign hotel, John knew Sherlock wouldn't dash away again. He slipped his tongue into the detective's mouth, running it alongside Sherlock's. The detective shivered at this motion and clambered onto John's chair, knees straddling the doctor's hips. His hand slipped to the back of John's head, long fingers tugging gently at the hairs on the nape of John's neck, while the other slid around John's back. The doctor moved one of his hands from Sherlock's waist to tangle into the detective's smooth curls. Sherlock moved his mouth from John's and began to kiss down the doctor's neck, unzipping John's parka as he went and pushing it from his shoulders. Suddenly, Sherlock's knee slipped off the side of the chair, and he bit down on John's neck in shock. The doctor gasped at the sensation, just minor pain mingled with a wave of pleasure that shot straight to his groin. "I am so sorry, John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, taking the doctor's face in his hands, eyes filled with concern. "Yes, you idiot, I'm fine. Do that again." John urged, his voice low and rough. Sherlock hesitantly moved his mouth to the other side of John's neck, biting gently and tugging just a little on the skin. John groaned in ecstasy and pulled Sherlock's face back to his, kissing him urgently. This is new, Sherlock thought. He'd done similar things before, but only for his own purposes, to gain vital information for a case. It had never felt like this. Dammit John, went through Sherlock's head, of course it's you. It was always going to be. Suddenly, John grabbed Sherlock's waist and pulled them down, grinding their hips together. Both men shuddered as their groins were pressed together, sending a wave of arousal to their growing erections. Sherlock grasped the front of John's jumper, pulling him back into a kiss filled with passion. John is wearing entirely too many clothes. Sherlock thought. He tugged on the bottom of John's jumper, pulling it and his t-shirt up over the doctor's head and tossing it to the floor, breaking the kiss for only the briefest moment before returning his lips to John's. He ran his hands over John's chest and shoulders, pausing to gently press a kiss to the scar in John's shoulder left by the Afghani bullet. John shivered at the gentle touch only gracing his skin and leaving his nerves tingling. He wanted, no, needed more. John sloppily unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, his dexterity lost in the heat of the moment. He stripped the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders and cast it away. The detective's skin was as pale and smooth, whereas John's was tanned, rough, and muscular. His hands slid to the detectives arse as he lifted the taller man, stumbling slightly under his weight. He placed Sherlock down on the bed and clambered on top of him. "Wait, John," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to, I won't pass judgment either way." "Yes, you idiot. I realized today that I've been wanting to do this for a long, long time." John replied, kissing Sherlock fiercely. Sherlock wriggled underneath of John, unbuckling John's belt and sliding down his zipper. He ran his hand over the front of John's pants, feeling his erection, finally freed from the constricting trousers. He pulled John's jeans down the rest of the way, kissing him languidly all the while. John tugged at the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, urging the detective to remove them. Sherlock lifted his hips to allow John to pull them down the rest of the way. The detective's trousers pooled around his ankles and were finally kicked into a heap on the floor. Finally they were in nothing but their pants, their heaving chests flush against each other. "John, are you sure?" Sherlock asked seriously once more. "Oh God, yes. Now for God's sake, off with your pants or else I'll do it for you." He urged in a husky voice. Blushing slightly, Sherlock obeyed, locking his gaze with John's, eyes filled with lust. The detective's eyes dropped from John's, landing on the doctor's pants, silently demanding their removal. His fingers trailed down John's spine, resting on the doctor's waist as the tips of his pinkies slipped beneath the waistband of John's pants. John shuddered, pressing his hips down onto Sherlock's, feeling Sherlock growing even harder through the thin fabric. The detective kissed John again, more sloppily this time. They weren't even fully undressed and already he was coming undone. He gently slid John's pants down his legs, fingers brushing lightly along John's arse. John slid his hand down Sherlock's chest teasingly, just brushing his nipple and continuing lower. Sherlock shivered at the touch, moaning slightly. The doctor grasped Sherlock's erection in his hand and slowly slid his hand toward the head, the hot skin slick in his grip. Sherlock groaned at the sensation, pleasure coursing through his veins. He lifted his hips, sliding himself in John's closed fist. His light gasps and moans shot straight to John's already achingly hard dick. "Sherlock," John said breathily, "Where do you want this to go?" "Want to feel you. In me." Sherlock, usually so eloquent, gasped. "Have you done this before?" John asked. "Yes, once, for a case. Now shut up." came the breathless reply. For once Sherlock was the one who knew when to stop talking. He pulled John back down to him, trapping John's arm against his chest as he kissed the doctor fiercely. The detective slid further into the middle of the bed, pulling John with grasped the doctor's hips and pulled him down onto his back. Then, the detective kneeled above John, kissing him delicately. He kissed down John's neck and chest, nibbling just below the doctor's abdomen. John gasped sharply as Sherlock took the head of John's dick in his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the tip, sucking gently. At this, John's hips twitched instinctively. Sherlock took his mouth off of John, licking a long stroke up the underside of the doctor's erection. He kissed along the top and gently tugged the foreskin, sending John into a torrent of explicit words. "Fuck, Sherlock." John moaned "What do you mean you've only done this once?" Sherlock responded by running his hand over John's dick, sucking hard at the tip and leaving John seeing stars. John laced his fingers through his flatmate's hair, doing his best not to dig his fingernails into his scalp. The detective could see that John wouldn't be able to control himself much longer. His mouth came off John with a pop and he rolled onto his side, hand searching through the bedside table for condoms and lube. John was too dazed to ask why the detective would have packed those materials, all of his willpower focused on not coming. Sherlock found what he was looking for and brought the box and tube up onto the bed. He turned onto his back and waited for John to catch on. It only took a few seconds for the doctor to take the hint. He fumbled trying to open the tube, his hands shaking in anticipation as he squeezed some onto his fingers. Sherlock grabbed one of their pillows and lifted his hips to move it under his back for better positioning. He lifted his legs, hoping John would figure out what to do. Quickly picking up on what to do next, John moved between Sherlock's legs as the detective wrapped them around John's waist. He trailed his fingers past Sherlock's groin, tracing one around Sherlock's hole teasingly before slipping the tip inside. Sherlock's back arched as John pushed his finger in deeper, up to the first knuckle. John waited for Sherlock's muscles to relax before pushing in further. He slowly moved his finger out and back in, testing Sherlock's response. When Sherlock was moaning under the touch of one finger, John gently added a second, scissoring his fingers apart to stretch Sherlock more. After the detective was thrusting onto four of John's fingers, John opened a condom and readied himself. "Okay?" he asked Sherlock. "Yes. I need you. Now." the detective replied. John slowly slid himself inside his flatmate. Gently at first, but with gathering urgency, he thrust into the detective. Sherlock moaned loudly at the feel of the doctor inside him, and tried to speak, but for once the detective seemed unable to utter a word. As John's speed increased, he started to lose control, until he was thrusting forcefully but with an erratic rhythm, coming undone. He slipped to the side, one of his thrust brushing Sherlock's prostate. "Fuck!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Again! Do that again." John obliged, doing his best to brush the same spot with each motion. The detective was gasping and moaning out a string of expletives, and this pushed John over the edge. He came hard into Sherlock, doing his best to continue thrusting as he did. He collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, breathing hard as he came down from his high. "That-, that was amazing." John gasped out, breathing heavily. As he regained control of his faculties, John noticed the press of Sherlock's own erection against his stomach. The detective was achingly hard, but he was determined to let John be the agent of his orgasm. He gasped when he felt John's hand on his cock, slick with leftover lubricant and Sherlock's own precum. John slowly moved his hand down Sherlock's erection, picking up speed quickly. Sherlock began moaning loudly at every motion, swearing profusely in multiple languages. He wasn't going to last much longer. Suddenly John lowered his head to Sherlock's erection and sucked hard on the tip. Sherlock came violently, his semen getting all over himself, John, and their bedsheets. "Fuck." he said, chest heaving as he came back down to Earth. "John, Je t'aime" "I know." John answered. " I love you too." They lay there for what seemed like an eternity, gazing into each others eyes, until Sherlock felt the stickiness on his chest start to dry. "How about a shower, Doctor?" Sherlock said suggestively, chuckling softly to himself. John scrambled to his feet, pulling the detective along after him into the roomy hotel bathroom. ~*~ After a long shower and with the bedsheets having been changed, John made tea as Sherlock sat in bed, typing furiously at his computer. "What're you doing?" John asked as he offered Sherlock his mug and climbed under the covers next to the detective. "Just finished sending the address of our killer to the local police. She's probably engrossed in some sort of an initiation ceremony, I think we can trust even the most incompetent of the force to handle her." Sherlock replied, closing his laptop and taking the mug from John. He blew on the scalding tea to cool it to a barely-manageable temperature before taking a long sip. He glanced over at John, looking warm and sleepy in his pajamas with his hair still damp from their shower. The detective gently stole John's mug and placed both of them on the bedside table. "Hey, wha-?" John began, but Sherlock silenced him with a slow kiss, filling it with all the devotion and longing he felt toward the doctor. "If we're going to continue this relationship, when we get back to London, it's going to be hard. We're both going to have to work at it, constantly. But you, John Watson, are worth every minute, et Je t'aime. That means-" " I know what it means, you idiot," John said fondly, "Je t'aime trop." He kissed the detective with every fiber of his being, wanting nothing more than to remain in this moment forever ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


End file.
